


A Job Well Done

by AceQueenKing



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9614717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: “So?” She asks. “I assume you were watching.”He lights another cigarette.“Up to your usual standards,” He says, refusing to give her the attention she obviously craves.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radioqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioqueen/gifts).



> Warning: TIM is not a nice man.

She's a beautiful liar.

He forgets that sometimes; Miranda is as perfect in body as she is in mind, and it's easy, even for him, to be dazzled. He watches at a distance, sitting in the cockpit of her getaway shuttle as she charms Donovan Hawk; she is an art collector, in this lie, and Miranda talks to him without breaking even the slightest hint of her cover story. Not only is she dazzling, but her entire persona shows how well she knows her audience. 

She's wearing red; a stunningly scarlet dress, that skims her assets without ever making her look whorish. (Miranda of course, _will_ be a whore if he asks, and he _may_ ask, but tonight, she is a consultant.) He's never been able to stand Hock, a thrice-damned Shanxi apologist, but Miranda laughs at his jokes, talks about shitty turian artwork as if she's known and admired that particularly odious' culture's artists for years.

She looks dead at him in the camera; he nods, slightly, despite knowing she can't see him. Old habits die hard. Miranda often glances toward him, takes his lead; she's a brilliant woman, but Henry raised her to be a follower, not a leader. It's a bit of a relief. Had Miranda tried to overpower him - try to take Cerberus from him - well, he could see her as a potent threat. Better to have her under his thumb than at his throat. Henry has made him a perfect operative in that regard -- and otehr regards, too. 

The Illusive Man takes a cigarette out and lights it, needing to keep his senses occupied with something more than Miranda. She smiles at him as if she knows what he's thinking, her lips even more carnal in that dark lipstick. He can hear her perfectly well despite the din of Hock's party, thanks to the microphone buried in her collar. The hidden camera she's subtly put up on some sculpture or another – all turian art looks the same to him – catch her well. Miranda makes sure to stay in sight of it as she fusses around Hock.

She likes to have him watch. 

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says, the accent just a touch put-upon. He misses her natural Australian lilt, but it's a necessary diversion, the harsh but flat american accent she uses instead. “It's been an honor to gaze at your collection.”

He smokes another cigarette, watching her, the engine thrumming underneath his legs and the rough taste of tobacco in his mouth. Miranda leans forward, her heavy bosom just brushing against Donovan Hock's undeserving side, and he sneers, the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

He doesn't like to run these missions, but he wouldn't trust Miranda's well-being to anyone else. She's young, but she's precious, in a way that most of his appointment book isn't. That's not to say he won't throw her to the wolves when he needs to – Cerberus isn't an entity that can afford sentimentality, and she won't be the first or the last that he's thrown to the three-headed dog – but he will be sorry to lose her, when the time comes.

Miranda flatters Hock. The Illusive Man rolls his eyes as she talks about the damn curtains from Thessia, all gossamer-wing silk and some dye that he doesn't care enough to place. _Get to the point_ , he wants to murmur, but doesn't; negotiating supplies on some of their more ...exotic components is a difficult job, even for Miranda, who is as well versed in diplomacy as she is in scientific breakthroughs. What Henry didn't see to in her education, the Illusive Man did. In all aspects but one. 

“Do you use _thermium_ to get the stitching to glow?” Miranda asks, and the Illusive Man's lips curve into a smile: Miranda casts the hook, and he can tell from the way Hock frowns that it's landed square in his jaw. Hock looks at her, disconcerted, because Berkenstein, for all its industrial glory, has never quite caught on to the notion of parity between the sexes. “Thermium is silver, Miss Anderson, but I'm afraid it's uses are found more in weapon's manufacturing...”  
  
“Ah, yes. I suppose you'd know,” Miranda says, her eyes just subtly aglow. Hock jerks back, as if struggling against the invisble hook, but like any big fish, it's too late. Still, the Illusive Man enjoys watching him wriggle on the hook. Hock looks at Miranda, only aware of a sliver of the danger he's in. Miranda could kill him with one biotic flick of her palm, and the Illusive Man would almost love to see it happen.

“I don't think that's a conversation for this party,” Hock murmurs, just low enough in her ear for Miranda's mic to pick up. Of course Hock would fear this more than anything else; these Berkenstein folk are all the same. All  ready to brag about their money, but no one wants to talk about how they got it.

“I disagree,” Miranda says, shoving him aside.  “This is _exactly_ the time.”

“You're not Maria Anderson, are you,” Hock asks, voice a quiet simper. Like most men, Hock does not enjoy being betrayed. Miranda's face doesn't show a single ounce of regret, which turns the Illusive Man on more than he'd like to admit. “I _ought_ to throw you out of here. This party only attracts a certain... _clientele_.”

The insult gets the Illusive Man's blood pumping harder than it ought to; Miranda can be many things, _has been_ many things, many people for him – so why does the idea that she isn't good enough for a Berkenstein party rile his blood so?

He should stop using her. His attachment to her is getting dangerous – but he can't imagine where he would get someone nearly half as talented.

(Henry, of course, but then...he can only steal so many of Henry's daughters.) 

“Who I am isn't important,” she says, smoothly ignoring the outrage in Hock's voice. “What I want _is_.”

“I should call the guards on you,” Hock mutters, not getting it. “You're beautiful, but your name's just as fake as your tits. Give me one reason – “  
  
The Illusive Man watches with no small sense of satisfaction as Miranda easily slides behind him, a hidden knife sliding out of her sleeve and into her hand.

“Your life?” She asks, the familiar lilt returning to her voice, along with the hard edge she only gets when she's hunting, a hardened edge that makes his cock throb. He lights his third cigarette and watches as Hock's Adam's apple bobs, up and down.

“What-What do you want?”  
  
“Thermium . A _lot_ of it. You'll deliver it to the dock on Berkenstein that I'm sending to your omni.” He sees her use one hand to send the co-ordinate while the other reminds Hock of the taste of sharp steel against one's neck. He sees a prick of blood.

He nods, hastily, the coward, and Miranda releases him. Hock coughs and glares at her as she slides the knife back into her sleeve and begins to walk away.

“I'll be sending a contract to your office tomorrow. Through an intermediary source, of course; don't try to follow it, you won't get anything. And if you don't give me what I want…” She looks back at him. “I'll kill you.”

He nods in satisfaction as Hock looks at her, the slightest, stunned nod registering. Like most men, he knows when he's been beaten.

The last thing he hears before he turns off the live feet are the click-click of Miranda's heels as she leaves, moving back toward their rendezvous point.

And he is ready.

* * *

It never takes her long.

He hears the thready hum of a motorbike; non-Cerberus issue. He opens the shuttle door with a wave of his hand. She dismounts perfectly; the gloves and helmet stored quickly along with the motorbike. She's all business, but he notices even perfect Miranda tucks her heels in with her bag, pulling out flats.

She straps in next to him and begins punching in coordinates; they don't talk for a full minute while navigating their way through the rocky asteroid belt that surrounds Berkenstein. The Illusive Man enjoys the silence, the feel of pitch-perfect synch between his guiding hands and hers, the perfect plot entered and done in minimal time.

Once they hit the relay, turning toward Cronos Station, she leans back, arching one brow.

“So?” She asks. “I assume you were watching.”

He lights another cigarette. He doesn't offer her one.  

“Up to your usual standards.” He says, refusing to give her the attention she obviously craves. This is her largest flaw, the constant need for praise – but that is Henry's fault, not his. And he has done such, _such_ a number on Miranda. Only eighteen, but she seems so much younger.  He wonders, idly, if Orianna will inherit this as well. Perhaps he should make sure her parents are a bit better adjusted – but would such a girl be nearly so useful? Miranda will do  _anything_ for him. 

He's distracted by his thoughts by Miranda unbuckling her seat and joining him in his, her fingers neatly flickering off his straps.

“Just okay?” She murmurs, a soft velvet-tone washing over his ear as she nuzzles him. She straddles him close, her hands on him, and he affects non-nonchalance, though it is impossible to entirely hide his reaction.

He is, after all, a man.

“As I said, up to your usual standards.” The harder he sounds, the more she'll beg, he knows that. He keeps his hands on the armrest, though his fists tighten when she starts to gyrate on him, up and down.

“Hm. I suppose I'll just have to change your mind,” she says, her tender lips pressing against his cheek. He doesn't lean into it, but he closes his eyes, puffing on the cigarette. She wastes no time, descending lower, pressing kisses as she undoes his white suit-shirt and the familiar crease in his pants. This is a familiar pattern, and he turns his eyes toward her, as he always does, unable to resist looking at her.

There's something about Miranda's face that's so painfully earnest, even here, where she's trying to bribe him into praising her with a blowjob. He puts a hand on her head to steady her; silent permission as she grins up at him while fishing his cock out of his pants, her skillful fingers desperately stroking his length.

It doesn't take him long to give in to her ministrations. He closes his eyes, focuses on the feel of Miranda's fingers. “Slower,” he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on her head. This isn't personal, he knows, but he wants to _feel_ like it is, just for a moment. Miranda nods, her fingers slowing their progress. He breathes deeply and focuses on the feel of her fingers – patient, guiding. She always seems to be evaluating him as much as he is evaluating her.

She leans forward, her fingers slowly curling into a fist. He gazes down at her with hooded eyes, not bothering to hide his pleasure as she looks up at him, her eyes so young and _eager_ as she pumps him. He can feel her breath on his cock, and groans with deep satisfaction as she flicks her tongue against the underside of his cock.

"Take it," he whispers, and his breath comes out harsh but he doesn't _car_ _e_ when Miranda looks at him like this. Ever the obediant cheerleader, she takes his cock into her mouth, wet and warm and sweet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, as she bobs her head up and down excitedly. Her eyes never look away from him; unlike most of the women he lies with, she seems more than happy to worship him, even without being paid for it. “ _Good_ girl.”

He pats her head and Miranda bobs quicker, the praise being clearly what she needs. She presses one hand down toward her own cunt, through the silky tightness of her dress. He smirks, his lips twisting in the satisfaction of making her want. She denies herself though, even without him having to say a word – she can deal with herself later.

It's a true pity that she is Henry's daughter, he thinks, as her hands move faster, forming a tight circle that she strokes while her tongue slowly explores the head of his cock. He'd love to bed her, but that would be beyond the pale for one of his most _prestigious_ backers. The taunt of fucking Miranda, hiding in plainer sight than she knows, is something best reserved for revenge – or levrage. He hasn't needed either yet – but he knows what to do when the pieces fall into place.

“More,” he grunts, shifting his hips. He can't take her cunt but he will take her lips, those round, puffy lips that take more of him in, more and more. Miranda coughs a bit, but he doesn't care, his hand simply tightening on her head. This is a lesson he needs to ensure Miranda learns – _he_ comes first; Cerberus comes first. He must instill her obedience. 

Her hands tighten on his thighs as she moves forward, taking him nearly from tip to base. He can see tears welling behind her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall, and she doesn't let them close.

“Good,” he grunts. “Keep working.”

Miranda hums a noise, devoted as she moves back to take a no doubt welcome breath. He doesn't give her much of a reprieve, too focused on his own orgasm. He shoves his cock back into her mouth, but though she whimpers, she does not reject him, her mouth redoubling her efforts.

“ _More_ ,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. He can fill the orgasm building now, the flash of white hot heat spreading from his spine to his groin. “That's it, Miranda.  _G_ _ood girl_.”

He doesn't tell her what's coming, but she's in sync enough with him to know, going faster; her hands pump him furiously as her tongue bobs over the tip of his cock. He looks away from her when he comes, his hands going tight as he forces her to take it in. She doesn't gag, her reflex worn down after a year of practice.

She leans back with a sigh, an aching look in her eyes, and once more he weighs the pros and cons of her and Henry – but, ultimately, Cerberus needs Henry more.

“Well?” She says, an aching need for approval on her lips.

“Good,” he says. “As always.”

She smiles, overcome by the praise. He redresses quickly, and leaves before he can find himself compromising himself more.  There will come a time when he will have to choose between her and Cerberus, and he knows that he'll take Cerberus over her. There will be a day when the novelty of the puppy dog eyes and need for praise will become boring. But that is not this day, nor likely the next. And when that day comes, well... Henry can always make more daughters.


End file.
